Chapter 40 Front of House
Front of House
Poppy
Ten minutes until guests start arriving.
I smooth my dress, taking a deep breath before pushing open the door to the kitchen.
I snuck down to Palm Beach a few weeks ago to shop for a suitable outfit for the pop-up. Working in the restaurant has meant
sneakers every day, plus jeans and T-shirts, so I took my time picking out something to wear. For myself, I kept telling everyone
who would listen. For the event. I ended up inviting the owner of the boutique and her assistant to the pop-up because I couldn’t
stop rambling about it.
If I’m being completely honest, however, most of me was looking for something that would make Jack’s jaw fall on the floor.
Judging by the expression on his face, I succeeded. I went with a gold dress with a thigh slit and square neckline, perfect
for emphasizing the shape of my breasts. The slinky fabric does wonders for my waist, as well, and I’ve accented it all with
a simple pair of dangling pearl earrings. He stops what he’s doing immediately—ignoring Hazel’s delighted whistle—and strides
over. His mouth is on mine in an instant, his body pressing me against the wall, dangerously close to a row of knives. He
devours me, his tongue exploring my mouth, teeth nipping my lips. I gasp, my hands opening and closing on his back.
He’s hungry. I can feel it in the charged air between us. Not just for me, but for this entire experience. Nothing makes his blood pump harder than the thrill of commanding the kitchen. I can’t wait to have a front row seat to it.
“Mission accomplished,” I murmur, rubbing my cheek against his beard.
“What?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“You look stunning. Like a perfect little present.”
“If you’re good, maybe I’ll let you unwrap me later.” I kiss him again, running my hands down his back, playfully squeezing
his firm, good-enough-to-bite ass. Not to be outdone, his hands wander along the fabric of my dress, coming dangerously close
to the thigh slit. “Are you ready?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be.”
“You’re going to crush it.”
The door to the alleyway swings open. Owen spots us, coughs hastily, and makes a quick exit.
“You’re the one who told me to stick to the strict fucking schedule!” he yells through the door. “I barred Mateo from coming
back here!”
“Head chef privileges,” Jack yells back. He catches my chin between his thumb and forefinger, leaving me with one more bruising
kiss. “You got this too, sweetheart. I tasted the dessert; it’s fucking fire.”
“Not too much lime?”
“It’s perfect.” He pushes me in the direction of the door. “Communicate, yeah? If we need to slow down or speed up, tell us.”
“Heard. But I’ll want you out in the dining room eventually.”
“Before dessert.”
“Sooner.”
“Heard, but no.”
“How will people know you have your shit together if they don’t see you? A head chef has to schmooze sometimes.”
He nudges open the kitchen door, sending me through like a late order. “Fine. Knock ’em dead, Princess.”
In the dining room, I gather my hair into a knot as I blow out a breath. Frenetic energy zings up my spine. My fingers itch to braid my hair, but I resist. I want it down tonight, brushing my shoulders in waves.
The cake fiasco aside, things have been going so well, I’m almost suspicious. I’m not going to fail. We’re not going to fail. This soft opening is going to introduce Fable to the culinary world with a bang. The dining room looks
incredible: high-end and understated yet infused with just the right amount of Florida charm. Not too bad for sweat equity
and a budget of practically nothing. Centerpieces of red and pink hibiscus grace every table, accented with silver buttonwood
and white zinnias. In the soft lighting, the blue walls remind me of the ocean. I inspect the nearest table, straightening
out a crooked fork.
Chester’s behind the bar, working on the signature cocktail; we decided to do a play on a Paloma, but with mezcal as the base.
And near the front door, going over the guest list one more time, is Kiara, looking fabulous in a red jumpsuit and block heels.
Her makeup, too, is killer.
“That red lipstick is incredible,” I say as I rush to her as fast as I can go in the heels I’m wearing, pulling her into a
hug. “You look amazing. Are you nervous? I feel like I’m about to vibrate out of my skin.”
“You look amazing too.” Kiara gestures to the tablet holding our guest list. “The number of recognizable names on here is
wild, by the way.”
I shrug. “I’m sure most of them said yes just to see what all the hype is about.”
“And you created that hype.”
“It’s not like being a vet, helping sick animals.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s not important. Plus,” she adds, eyes full of mischief, “you managed Jack. On camera.”
“Ugh. The most uncooperative costar ever. He’s lucky he’s handsome. People wouldn’t have stopped scrolling nearly as much
otherwise.”
She rolls her eyes fondly. “Secretly, there’s a part of him that’s into it.”
She heads off to talk with the guitar player, a local artist who is setting up against the wall opposite the booths. I triple-check
the guest list myself, heart hammering.
I take a deep breath, even though breathing exercises have always been a joke to me—I’m convinced meditation is torture—and throw back my shoulders.
I can do this.
Guests arrive in a parade of hired rides or flashy sports cars. Kiara and I greet everyone who comes through the door, obligingly
posing for selfies and giving out excited hugs. Slowly, the tables start to fill up. Servers float through the crowd with
trays of drinks and tiny, perfect hors d’oeuvres: toast points with smoked salmon and caviar; bacon-wrapped, bleu-cheese filled
dates; seared scallops in a pool of vibrant green pea purée; and pickled jackfruit–stuffed puff pastry.
A group of influencers—women I went to events with all the time in New York—settle at a booth, their phones already out and
recording.
“Poppy!” calls one of them, Ashley. Her father is a prominent investor, and she rose to popularity by recording her life on
the Upper East Side for the masses.
I put on my best smile. “Hi, girls,” I trill once I walk over. “Thanks so much for coming.”
“This is incredible,” gushes another, Georgia. “Usually anything north of Palm Beach is a no-go, but I’m glad we made an exception.”
“Wait until you taste the food.” I clasp my hands together. My designer dress, just as fine as any of theirs, feels like armor.
“Jack and I have put together a really fantastic menu.”
“Will we see an appearance from the internet’s favorite chef?” Ashley asks.
I shrug coyly. “You’ll have to see.”
Once I’m back to moving through the crowd, it hits me that I don’t feel connected to those women—or anyone else here—like
I used to. Instead of being desperate for approval and attention, I’m self-assured in the effort I put into Fable. I’m channeling
my best @itspoppywinfield tonight, complete with a flashy gold dress, but it’s not all I am anymore.
I never imagined how freeing it would feel.
I retreat to the host stand, taking in the room at large. Pride floods my chest. I remember how the restaurant looked when I first arrived. Grimy, and sad, but with so much promise. So many good memories lingering in the air. An abandoned ship, ready for another voyage.
I don’t know how long this place is going to last, and I don’t want to think about it. Not tonight. Not when it feels as though
I’ve stepped into a fairytale.
A fable.
It hits me, fully, that I did this. We did this. I brush away a stray tear and clear my throat.
“Is this everyone?” Kiara asks, once I’ve done another round through the room.
“Yeah, I—”
I stop as I notice a blonde woman sitting by herself at the end of the bar, effortlessly elegant in a black strapless dress.
Her hair is twisted into a complicated knot to emphasize her long, swanlike neck. She’s in the middle of telling Chester something.
He laughs, eyes crinkling.
She turns slightly, and I freeze. I recognize that face from my Instagram stalking sessions.
Jessica Danes.
“Make sure everyone is enjoying themselves,” I tell Kiara. “I’ll be right back.”
She follows my gaze. “What the hell? Is that Jessica?”
“Yes,” I say tightly. I weave through the room, a smile plastered on my face. At the bar, Chester raises his brow—no doubt
noticing my pinched expression—but I shake my head, and he busies himself with something at the other end of the counter.
“Jessica?” I wipe my sweaty palms on my dress. “Jessica Danes?”
Jessica turns to look at me. “Poppy Winfield, right? Fabulous party.”
My stomach clenches. I knew she was pretty, but in person, it’s clear that description falls short. “Thanks,” I reply, working
to keep a pleasant look on my face. “I’m sorry, but this party is invitation-only.”
“Oh, I’m an old friend of Jack’s.” She smiles, her cherry red nails tapping the bar. “But I’m sure you already know that.”
My smile wavers. I resist the urge to look around the dining room, pitching my voice low. The last thing we need tonight is a scene. “We have a very selective guest list for this event. Let me show you to the exit.”
She takes another sip of her drink. “And yet there was an open seat at the bar.”
“Like I said, it’s invitation-only.”
“I’m sure Jack will be happy to see me.” She cranes her head around. “Is he coming out anytime soon?”
“He’s busy,” I say flatly. My patience is wearing thinner by the second. “Given that he’s the one running the kitchen, and
all.”
She tilts her head to the side, gaze sweeping over me with cool interest.
“What do you think?” she asks, gesturing to her dress. “Enough to get him to buy me a drink when this is over?”
“What are you talking about?”
“A drink. You know, take me out.” She wrinkles her nose. She reminds me of so many women I orbited around in New York. Icy,
wrapped in couture, and obnoxiously self-assured so they wouldn’t have to admit how insecure they were. “Not that there’s
anywhere to go in this dead town, but I’m sure Jack and I will make do.”
I cross my arms, hip cocked. The protectiveness surging through me is for Diamond Bay just as much as Jack. She doesn’t know
the first thing about this town. “If it’s so dead, why’d you come all the way out here? For the last time, this is a private
event, and you need to leave.”
She doesn’t move.
I suppress a growl of frustration. “Jessica, please. I’ll tell him you stopped by.”
Like hell I will, but she doesn’t need to know that.
“Do you really want to throw me out in front of all these people? Ruin Jack’s big night?” At my lack of response, she sips
her drink. “Exactly.”
“He told me what you did,” I say flatly. “You can’t seriously think he’d be even remotely interested in you again.”
“We all make mistakes.” She crosses one long leg over the other, sighing. “I should have stuck with him. But he wasn’t nearly as interesting when he was just hired help, you know? Now, he’s someone. All thanks to you, it seems.”
Anger hits me like a tidal wave. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
She finishes her drink, setting the empty glass on the bar with a deliberate clink. “I chose wrong.”
“Chose wrong? You used him.”
She laughs. “Is that what he said?”
“You used him to make your ex jealous.” My nails dig into my arms. “You made him think you cared about him, when really, you
were ready to throw him aside the moment you didn’t need him anymore. You don’t want him back. You just want to fuck with
him again.”
Jessica’s eyes narrow. “Please. As soon as we got involved, he started asking Dad about job opportunities. I’m sure he thought
I’d be able to put in a good word when the time came. He’ll do whatever he needs to do to get to the top. We were using each other that entire summer.”
“That doesn’t mean—” I stop in my tracks at the sight of Jack striding out of the kitchen.
He heads for the tables, reaching out his hand for a shake at the first two-top. Despite my concern that my heart might beat
straight out of my chest, I smile. I know this is awkward for him; there’s a tightness to his shoulders that betrays his unease,
but he’s putting himself out there anyway.
I tear my gaze away, focusing on Jessica as she tracks his movements. With the chef’s jacket and aura of confidence, he looks
devastatingly handsome. I chew the inside of my cheek, thinking furiously. This could derail everything. I should have said
to hell with it and shoved her to the door the moment she opened her mouth.
Before I can come up with a plan, he spots us. His jaw tightens. Shit.
He says something to the table of diners he was schmoozing with, clapping a man on the shoulder before winding his way to
the bar. “Jessica?”
Her smile wavers at his flat tone.
I look around nervously. An executive for Food Network is just a few seats down from us, and her gaze is on Jack, no doubt hoping for a hello.
But his attention is all on us. As he looks between beautiful Jessica in her black dress, and then me, sweaty and awkward and stiff, something I could swear looks like hurt flickers in his eyes.
“She was just leaving,” I blurt, as Jessica says, “It’s good to see you.”
She fixes her smile, makes it big and wide and sharklike. She reaches out to touch the buttons on his jacket. “It’s been ages,
Jack, hasn’t it?” she adds.
He bats her hands away. “What are you doing here? This is a private event.”
“That’s what your hostess said.” She pouts. “I was hoping we could—”
“If my girlfriend said it,” he interrupts, emphasizing the word girlfriend softly, intensely, as his eyes flick to mine, “then you better listen.”
My eyes widen. My heart hammers against my ribs like a bird taking flight.
Girlfriend. He called me his girlfriend.
Jessica scoffs. “You can’t be serious.”
His stony gaze doesn’t waver.
She looks like she’s just been slapped. “You traded down to her? Seriously?”
“You have thirty seconds to get to that door.”
“But—”
“I don’t care what kind of scene I have to make.” His voice is still low enough it isn’t carrying, but his tone is clipped.
“Go.”
Jessica slides off the bar stool, flustered, her elegant veneer cracked. “Fine.” She grabs her purse, pats her hair. Somehow,
she finds it in herself to squeeze my arm as she passes. Friendly, like we just made brunch plans. “Remember what I said,
Poppy. Who knows, maybe he’s doing the same with you.”
“Ten seconds.”
Jessica stumbles in the direction of the door.
As Jack turns to me, that word echoes in my mind. Girlfriend. Girlfriend. Girlfriend.
Nothing has been the same since the hospital. The flimsy boundaries I put up blew away, and neither of us has bothered replacing them.
My chest cracks wide. Joy rushes through me, an avalanche I’m happily buried in. I lean over, wanting—needing—his lips on
mine.
I reach up to kiss him, but Jack stops me with a look that could melt ice.
He goes back to the kitchen without a word.